tattered old windsock hanging limply,
fuel drums rusting in a heap. It was
as if the occupants packed up walked
away 50 years ago. Unsettled, I con-
tinued.
The following morning, I woke
with stiff legs. My body in shock by
the amount of punishment I was put-
ting it through. The unsettled feeling
remained. I checked and rechecked
my kit.
It wasn’t long before the problems
began.
Around mid-morning, cresting a
sand dune, the bike bounced like a
pinball off a tree. Somehow, I man-
aged to keep it upright and power
out of the sand. Pulling up I realised
one of my water bottles had burst.
One and half litres of water gone, six
hours of precious life.
Not long after the nipple on my
bladder came off, losing another 12
hours of life out of my backpack.
Shit!
Almost 500 kilometres from the
nearest township, I had only seen two
cars in nearly three days. My only
company had been the tyres marks
left by ‘Slips’. I had at least two days
to reach my next resupply and less
than a day of drinkable water remain-
ing. The situation wasn’t horrible,
but I knew I had to make up some
ground or spend a very thirsty day on
the bike.
With little options available I bot-
tled my urine from then on, making a
cocktail of urine, water, Berocca and
hydrolyte. I swilled it down like a
pint of beer.
A sandstorm came blowing in.
Gusts of wind started pushing me
across the track, blowing the wheel
ruts clean. Stopping to fix yet an-
other water leak, I watched my own
tracks get blown over. Not just mine!
I realised the tracks left by ‘Slips’
were also disappearing. I’d become
attached to these simple tracks, I now
felt very alone, vulnerable and afraid.
Covering almost 350 kilometres
that day, my poor little bike screamed
TRAVERSE 92